


the sting of salt

by JaguarCello



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, unrequited love is a bitch and then you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:28:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon – decried as a traitor by both sides of the age-old conflict between his father and Robb’s – preferred to keep his secrets close to his chest, and jealously guarded; he trusted nobody, apart from Robb, and he was not foolish enough to entrust Robb with this particular piece of drivel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sting of salt

**Author's Note:**

> [I own none of the characters; this is based off the HBO characterisations of GRRM's asoiaf, and none of the place names, people or established events mentioned as canon are my intellectual property]

There was something strange, Theon thought, about being in love with your friend. He’d – of course – listened to all the shitty songs ever written (mainly the Smiths, because at least his heartbreak made him look cool), fucked anyone with blue eyes or russet hair that curled at the tips, stared for a fraction too long when Robb shifted in his chair to expose pale ridges of muscle and a trail of dark hair disappearing below his jeans– and if he was going to be a cliché, he’d decided long ago to do it properly.

 He’d been in love with Robb for a while now – he wasn’t sure how long, but he knew that the way his thoughts twisted with his wrist in the night wasn’t just lust. He knew how Robb fucked, obviously. He knew how he moaned and half-whimpered when girls tangled their fingers in his hair, how he’d coax them into oblivion with his tongue and his teeth and his fingers, he knew the slow smile that would spread across his face after sex, and the way he’d smell after it too.

 Robb knew all this about him as well, of course – it would be impossible to have lived together for such a long time, in a house with such thin walls, not to learn that, and they had lived together since Theon had left home for the last time, turning up on the doorstep with a hastily-packed suitcase and a black eye from his brother.

 The coldness of his father’s rejection, abandoning him like a lowly pawn sacrificed without a second thought, stung like salt water in a wound. His sister, as well, had scorned him for softening, and valuing friendship above revenge, or greed; the Starks were not afraid to work for what they wanted.

 For that matter, Robb’s casual ignorance stung, too. The way he’d sling an arm over Theon’s shoulder, or scuffle with him over the last beer, or ask him to help him out with a girl – he was a lot more choosy than Theon, because Robb cared about personality and morals and all the shit that Theon never bothered with; for him, it was an easy way of seeking oblivion.

 Theon’s temper and mood ebbed and flowed like the tides on the beaches of his homeland; some days he’d be cheerful, mocking anyone who looked at him, mouth curled into a sardonic smirk, and other days he would look out across the green hills and mourn for the life he could barely remember. Resentment clouded his every move, jealousy shrouded his dreaming, but he struggled free every time, grasping at Robb’s firm handshake.  

 He’d never tell him, of course. Robb was bold and proud and bright and beautiful, and his currency was courage and openness, and Theon – decried as a traitor by both sides of the age-old conflict between his father and Robb’s – preferred to keep his secrets close to his chest, and jealously guarded; he trusted nobody, apart from Robb, and he was not foolish enough to entrust Robb with this particular piece of drivel.

 But every time Robb threw himself down on the battered sofa to watch the football, thigh touching Theon’s until he nudged him with a “Move up, Greyjoy,” or when he came back from the pub with his brothers, slightly drunk and affectionate, whispering words that Theon ignored firmly, or when Theon came back from the pub drunk, head spinning and feet leaden, and Robb had put him to bed gently, or when they pushed a trolley round a supermarket in a display of domesticity that Theon forced himself to laugh at, he wondered on the merits of keeping secrets.

 He had told him once, years ago, when he was eighteen and drunker than usual on cheap vodka and the scent of a girl’s perfume, how he felt, and Robb (equally drunk, vomiting into the gutter beside him) had patted him on the back, before passing out face-down on the cobbles.

 They had kissed though, later that night, and Robb’s stubble was rough on Theon’s face and his lips were chapped and he tasted of crisps and salt and the burn of vodka, hands tangling in hair and teeth clashing, and when Theon had drawn back to breath and drink in the scent of Robb (sharp sweat and cologne and lust), Robb had passed out again, slumped on his chest like a dead man.

 They’d never mentioned it again, and Theon had no intention of doing so; his secrets became his ace cards, his winning hand, and only a fool revealed his hand.

 

 


End file.
